


The way we died

by Dhely



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:26:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhely/pseuds/Dhely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Ultimates Wanda was shot to death and Clint (who had his family killed, too) helped Pietro in a very physical ways..</p><p>Thanks to HenryS, as usual...</p><p>Clint's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	The way we died

When they killed my family, they killed me.

Hate, anger, fury: there is no word to describe what I was feeling. There was something really different and deep and dark from every single words.

If they’d ripped apart my bones, poisoned my blood, burned my lungs, cut my arms, I would not have felt so hurt, so hopeless.

They threw me in a hell of anguish and pain.

My wife, my sons, my daughter: they killed them. They ripped away my heart, my soul, my life.

Vengeance wasn’t enough - nothing was enough: I realized this when, at the end, I killed them. I had hoped that when I had killed them, I would be relieved, at least.

No, vengeance wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

My life was only a black, void hole. I had only to obey orders, to fight – I didn’t care to stay alive, I didn’t care why they were sending me to protect a place or to kill someone.

I wasn’t really alive anymore.

Then: someone killed Wanda – here on the sidewalk in front of our base entrance.

Someone shot one single bullet. Pietro saw it, of course, he stretched out an hand to stop it, to catch it. It pierced his hand – like no other bullet had ever done, like _never any_ bullet would _have to be able_ to do so when he was moving as fast as he was used to – and hit Wanda’s chest. Wanda’s heart.

She died in his arms, on the sidewalk out of here.

I was on a mission with Steve, Thor was I don’t know where, and Tony was definitely drunk.

He _alone_ took her in his arms to the infirmary. He alone stood here, near her, among the doctors and nurses – we had been a team, but in that time we failed him: we failed ourselves.

When I returned to the base, Pietro was here, covered in blood: her blood and his, on his hands, on his harms, on his uniform. A red, dry spot on his cheek stood out, his eyes were of  an intense, opaque blue.

He was broken.

He shouted one single time, when he told us we failed her, we didn’t help her, we didn’t _save_ her – no one could do it, no one was as fast as him, no one could have stopped that bullet since he have failed it, we know it. He know it, too, but he needed to show his anger, his pain. I was aware of it: cruelly, perfectly aware.-

He shouted that  single time, then he remained silent for hours: when the doctor told him she was dead, when a nurse came to medicate his hand, when Tony went to ask him for detail of the shoot, when Steve swore to him they would find the murderers and promised revenge.

He looked at them but he wasn’t seeing them.

They were nothing.

Wanda was dead.

He was dead, too.

I understood it the first time I looked at him.

I _felt_ it when I saw him – his eyes, his lips, his posture. I saw myself in him.

I saw everything: I’m only a human, but I’m Hawkeye, I see every weakness, every wound.

He didn’t see me. He didn’t see anyone.

He and Wanda were twins – friends, lovers; they were linked, united, I don’t know the exact word, but it didn’t matter – and now, alone, he couldn’t live: he knew it. I _saw_ it: clearly.

There was no doubt, no hopes: there was no room for them in him. Pietro was dead.

Hours passed. The doctor convinced him – forced him?- to go to rest in his room.

He left her corpse with a moving touch on her hair: a nurse almost cried, and he looked at her as she was made of glass.

He would not have rested, he would _never_ be able to rest _anymore_ – I knew it.

I wondered why I was worried about him.

Hour passed, than one day.

Steve was watching every movie security to find some track of the aggressor, Tony was busy in a frantic search about some residues left by bullets and its trajectory, Hank was studying its chemical composition and structure – it was specially made to _pierce_ Pietro’s flesh, despite his power. Maybe it should be him the victim? Maybe they had thought that he would have shielded Wanda with his body, as he did every time she was in danger?

I knew Pietro would have been happy to die in Wanda’s place; I knew he was hating himself for being alive.

One day, than two.

I knocked at Pietro’s room; no one answered. 

He was here, sitting still on the couch, his head in his hands. Someone had bought a glass of water and something to eat. Everything was here, untouched.

He didn’t hear me enter, or maybe he did, but he didn’t care.

“Pietro.”

He stayed still.

I approached, leaning on my knees in front of him.

“Pietro.”

I took his wrists in my fingers. His left hand was covered with a white band – once it was whiter, now it showed a red pale stain on his palm – but they both were shaking.

Eventually he looked at me.

I saw his eyes, dull and desperate. I saw his face, drawn and suffering. I saw him, and, in a way, I was seeing myself.

I had no words for him. I had no reassurance, I had nothing for him.

Why was I here?

We had never been friend.

We had never been anything.

I knew it – he knew nothing.

I kissed him.

Why? How?

It didn’t matter. He needed it, even if he didn’t know. I needed it, even if I wasn’t aware since then.

I had nothing for him, for help him, for..

It didn’t matter: we were dead, and in the death we were together.

He didn’t rejected me, he did not have the strength to do so – he was drowning in the pain and in the void, he needed someone to hold on; he was afraid and fragile; he was alone, and he hated to be alone, he ever _ever_ hated to be alone: Wanda knew it, he knew it. _I_ knew it: I _ever_ knew it.

The morning after he was soundly sleeping in his bed, and I smiled. He needed it: to sleep, to relax himself a bit, to forget even for a few hours.

I needed it, for the same reasons –better:  I need him for a reason I wasn’t aware. It didn’t matter.

I stoke lightly his silvery, smooth, fine hair and he smiled -  a small, sweet smile I’ll never forget: I never saw him smile that smile to anyone who wasn’t Wanda. He was dreaming about her, of course, but I didn’t blame him.

I didn’t care.

I closed in silence his door’s room behind me while I was zipping my sweatshirt.

Steve was here, tired and a bit nauseous – maybe, maybe not. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want that it mattered somehow.

“Does he felt..”

Better? Any word he would have wanted to use it would be wrong.

“He’s sleeping.”

It was enough, for now.

When Pietro had opened his eyes there would be many things to deal with, to bear.

Not now.

Now he was sleeping. He was dreaming about Wanda.

For now it was enough.


End file.
